


FIRE ON UR TONGUE

by reserve



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, ryan ross you are the worst, shaming myself for my old ships in public
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 10:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15192764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve
Summary: For our first headline tour I would go up to Ryan our guitar player, and like kiss him on the neck or kiss him on the mouth and he would be so mad. I was like,I just want to kiss you bro.





	FIRE ON UR TONGUE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [robokittens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/gifts), [yeats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeats/gifts).



> In honor of Brendon Urie coming out as pansexual, I present to you the one Ryan/Brendon fic that I wrote back in 2006. Only slightly edited, so please enjoy the way I wrote at age twenty.
> 
> Originally posted to Livejournal, of course.

If there were a religion that worshipped the shiny, the over-the-top, the fake, and the outrageous, then Las Vegas would be its Mecca. Brendon likes to say to Ryan, but mostly to himself, that growing up in Vegas was like growing up in glitter. And Ryan knows exactly what he’s talking about, even if he thinks Brendon is shit with metaphors.  
  
A Mormon, a closeted homosexual, and a seventeen year-old walk into a club… Ryan knows that they are the start of a very bad, probably raunchy joke, but he tries not to think about it very often. Mostly he just pats down his tiny Euro-mullet, smoothes pomade into his faux-hawk and tries not to poke himself in the eye with his liner. At first, Brendon needed to help them all out.

Because Brendon knew what he was doing. Brendon had his first—first!—threesome at 16. And, more relatedly, Brendon used to be Goth. He was a Poppy Z. Bright reading, Cure worshipping Goth boy with the practiced eyeliner applying hand to prove it. The phase probably lasted from the summer before sophomore year to mid-junior year when he discovered Thursday. His mother still has the pictures, even if the bondage pants look didn’t go over very well at church.

Ryan’s not very much for mess. Their tour bus is a fucking warzone, so he’s glad they’ve got a night in the hotel. Spencer is really into his X-Box right now, and the games are all over the place. Since going on the road, Ryan’s become a vegan. He got fucking sick of fried food and burgers. He’s trying to get everyone to switch to soymilk, Spencer doesn’t care either way, but Brendon is having none of it.

“That’s milk made from a plant,” he had told Ryan. “Milk made from a plant has to have so much extra stuff in it.”

They were diving from Los Angles to Seattle. Looking out of the window at the coastline was making Ryan feel nauseous.

“It’s good for you!” Ryan argued.

“Good for me is you shutting up and stepping away from the refrigerator,” Brendon had smiled, and dodged an arm around him to grab a fresca.

“I’m telling you!” Ryan said uselessly, and closed the fridge after him.

They had a whole kitchenette on the bus. None of them were used to cooking for themselves— hence that whole fueled-by-ramen thing. For the first time in his life, Ryan had a pretty good amount of pocket money and he still wasn’t eating very well. Vegan nuggets weren’t exactly cheap, though… so it was good in that respect. Even if Spencer and Brendon thought he was going crunchy.

“I get the straight-edge thing,” Spencer had said. “But dude, what’s life without a burger?”

Ryan had just sighed.

Now they’re in Seattle, and he’s sad they had to leave LA, where he and Greta did some hella good shopping—another one of the perks of having money. They’ve played two shows here and the crowds are pretty good. Young, but then again, they’re fucking young.

Still, Ryan knows that most of the kids who come to their shows are driven there by mommy and daddy. Those kids wear their Hot Topic wardrobes and feel badass, and it’s okay, because they’re like, fourteen. It’s hard, Ryan thinks. He’s gotten so much older over the last few months, and he won’t see his next birthday for a while. And it’s those kids who buy their merch and let him go shopping for vegan brownies and hot clothes.

He—he bought a Louis Vuitton belt in LA. And whatever. It’s a hot belt. Designer, Ryan holds, can be punk. He likes the monogram. And anyway, he bought the belt at a high-end thrift shop—as opposed to, say, a high-end mall. Brendon and Spence give him shit for it anyway.

“It’s a girl’s belt, you know,” Brendon says from the couch behind him in their room.

“So?” Ryan pouts at himself, still looking in the mirror.

“Just saying.” Brendon shrugs.

“This from the boy who said that wearing makeup would make us way hotter?” Ryan raises an eyebrow.

“It does make us look hotter.”

“You mean it makes you look hotter.” Ryan adjusts the sizing, flips the buckle to the side. Better. “Do you think the letters are kind of a…a taupe color?” He curls his lip up a little scrutinizing his waist.

“I dunno,” Brendon says, and comes to stand next to him. He gets down on his knees and looks real close.

Ryan feels his face begin to color, maybe feels a bit of sweat at the nape of his neck. The euro-mullet is going to frizz. He tugs at his bangs.

“Could be taupe,” Brendon says ponderously from the ground. “But I left my glasses on the bus.”

“Taupe’s not bad,” Ryan says slowly.

“Can I try this thing on?” Brendon asks, and before Ryan says yes, or no, or you-are-totally-on-your-knees-ohmygod, Brendon has his fingers on the buckle and his tongue between his teeth while he carefully pulls the belt apart and off of Ryan’s waist. Ryan swallows hard.

“Um,” he says.

Brendon stands up and loops the pilfered Louis Vuitton belt around his own waist. It clashes horribly with his lavender hoodie. At least Ryan thinks it does. But Ryan isn’t really thinking much at all right now.

“I like this belt. This is a nice belt.” Brendon nods at himself. “This belt looks good on me.” He makes a few patented Brendon faces, puts his hands on his hips, looks like he’s about to pirouette.

“See? It’s a great belt. A veye good, very nice belt. And it’s _vintage_ ,” he adds, with conviction.

Greta says that everything is better when it’s vintage. Spencer says that everything is better when it’s free. Brendon says that everything is pretty damn good if he’s doing it. And Ryan likes when things are cruelty free….and sober.

Brendon is much too busy looking in the mirror. They usually share a room on tour. Spencer is too messy for him, and he and Brendon generally wear the same size clothing so it works out well. In any case, he’s used to Brendon looking in the mirror. Brendon, though not very conceited on the outside, really likes looking at his own face.

“Can I have my fucking belt back?” Ryan puts his hand out.

“Nope.” Brendon smirks. “All mine now.”

“Just give it back, okay?” Ryan got enough of this in middle school. He and Brent were losers. And even when he finally had a group of friends they always seemed to be stealing his shit, hiding it, watching him search helplessly around when whatever he was looking for was pretty much always right behind him, or being passed from hand to hand.

“Whatcha gonna do about it?” Brendon asks, and hops out of his way when Ryan tries to paw at his waist and remove the belt himself.

Ryan huffs, and frowns. “Nothing, fuck it. Keep the belt.” That is pretty much his way. He isn’t much for dicking around about stupid things. Instead, he goes and sits on one of the double beds. Picks up a copy of _Spin_ he bought at a truckstop.

“You’re no fun,” Brendon says and jumps up onto the bed, bounces next to him for a minute.

“And you’re a child,” Ryan grumbles, losing his grip on the magazine. The Comfort Inn beds don’t have much shock control. They also squeak something awful.

There’s a massive thump, and Brendon falls down next to him.

“Man, these things must sound like hell when people fuck on them,” he says, and rocks back and forth, making the bed squeak some more.

“Stop it.”

“No.”

_Squeak, squeak, squeak._

“Stop.”

“No.”

_Squeak, squeak._

“Stop—“

Ryan hits him over the head with the magazine and suddenly Brendon is on top of him and the belt is off and Ryan doesn’t know exactly what happened and but he knows that maybe Brendon wasn’t kidding when he tried to drunkenly crawl into bed with him a week or so back. Ryan likes him better sober. Even if he is annoying.

 _Squeak, squeak_ , goes the bed. Brendon’s legs are on either side of his hips, the pillow  behind him crushed against the headboard.

“You know what I like about this belt?” asks his captor, which charming malice  

“That… that it’s taupe?” Ryan swallows. His fingers dig into the scratchy comforter, chipped black nail polish stark against his pale skin and the bland fabric  

“Nope, that I can do this,” Brendon says, and jerks Ryan’s hands above his head and against the top of the headboard. He wraps the belt around Ryan’s thin wrists, and loops the leather through the bars of the headboard. Buckles it, and Ryan feels the metal and the broken in, _vintage_ , leather against his skin.

“Brendon…” Ryan says slowly. “You just tied me to the bed.”

“Oh, look at that, I sure did.” Brendon looks appreciatively at his handy work. Flexes his thighs a little, which Ryan really _feels_.

“What are you going to do?”

“I think I’ll watch some TV,” Brendon says from above him.

“What… are you? The shit?”

“Just kidding,” Brendon says, leaning down, and then he close, real close to Ryan’s face. Really, really close.

Ryan can see where he didn’t get all of the makeup off after their show tonight. The flecks of black on his checks where the mascara caked, and the sparkles left over under his eyes. His lips look bitten. He’s breathing on Ryan’s cheek.

“Am I freaking you out?” Brendon asks.

“Nothing freaks me out,” Ryan says defiantly, opens his eyes a little wider because his lids feel heavy.

“Good,” Brendon says. “Now close your eyes.”

Ryan does, because when Brendon says thinge, people seem to go along with it. It’s like he’s the devil…people just bend to his will. That simple. If Brendon asked a waiter to bring them 60 veggie burgers soaked in truffle oil on the house, the poor guy would probably do it. Because he just _couldn’t say no._

Ryan closes his eyes and Brendon licks his left eyelid. Fucking licks it. Ryan feels his tongue, wet and hot against the thin skin, and he feels the pressure on his eye, and for a moment he hopes very stupidly that he won’t get pinkeye, but then Brendon moves on to his left ear and Ryan tries not to grind his hips upward, he tries not to struggle at his belt, holding his hands in place. He tries so hard, but his hips jerk when Brendon sucks his earlobe between his lips.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Ryan says.

And Brendon whispers, “yeah?” into his ear, and Ryan thinks it sounds a little bit like a question.

“Yeah… yeah,” Ryan mutters and Brendon goes in for the kill. Because that’s really what it is. He’s fucking killing Ryan with this. Brendon’s lips are on his, and they are bitten and kind of torn at, but still soft and Ryan tilts his head back, knocks it hard into the headboard trying to get more, and wants to tear his hands out of this fucking belt and pull Brendon so hard against him. But he’s not the type to do rough things, really. He’s not about to flip Brendon over and straddle him like some kind of pet. Even if he wants to.

He will beg, though. He’s not above begging.

“Please,” he says.

“Please what?”

“Don’t—“ Ryan inhales sharply. “Don’t be cliché.”

“Please take my hands out of this belt?”

“No.” Ryan squirms.

“No?” Both of Brendon’s eyebrows go up.

“Please, please do something…” He grimaces at the sound of his own voice. Curls his toes inside his socks.

“Like what?”

“You fucker!” Ryan grins, and it kind of hurts his face.

“That’s right,” Brendon says and slithers down him, down to his crotch. And because Brendon isn’t some stupid scenester girl he doesn’t even bother with kisses on his stomach or any of that cutesy bullshit. He just undoes Ryan’s tight, tight jeans, tugs them down with his briefs just enough, and takes his cock into his mouth.

Ryan moans. Brendon’s not good at this. But he’s fucking enthusiastic and better than the last person, who was wearing braces, which Ryan hadn’t noticed in the dark. His leg jerks, and Brendon’s lips are wet around his cock and it’s warm and good and like coming home or something because Brendon looks really amazing down there, like he belongs there, with his dark hair against Ryan’s open jeans and softly curling pubic hair, and his big, annoying mouth put to good use.

Brendon looks up at him and his eyes are a question and Ryan doesn’t know how he’ll be able to keep this out of his next set of lyrics. He nods, and Brendon keeps going and even cups his balls in one perfect piano playing hand and Ryan wants to come but doesn’t want it to stop and it’s like drowning and flying at the same time, and instead of trying to fight it he lets go.

Brendon chokes a little, eyes downcast and spits come out on the comforter. It’s even hotter than swallowing would have been.

Ryan’s hands really fucking hurt, and the belt has chaffed his wrists in the struggle, but his cock is flaccid on his thigh and Brendon’s hair is still perfect because Ryan couldn’t mess it up, but there’s a tiny smudge of his own fucking semen at the corner of Brendon’s wet, red mouth that Ryan would kill people, doves even, to swipe away with his thumb.

And it’s. It’s the hottest thing that has ever happened to him, and there’s no music playing but Radiohead’s been blasting in his head since Brendon unzipped his pants.

He’s breathing hard. He sounds like a panic attack.

“So,” Brendon looks at him smugly, sitting back on his knees. “Can I keep the belt?”

“Keep the fucking belt,” Ryan says. He breathes deep. 


End file.
